I’m standing at the bar with some of my friends, not drinking anything. I’ve been trying to get over a horrible cold-like ailment that’s been going around. I went to sleep last night with a wracking cough and sandpaper lining my throat, so I thought that though I was going out in an attempt to appease my friends, I wouldn’t drink.
The barman, a fat oaf of a guy, drifts his eyes up towards me as though he’s favoring me by his attention, and enquires,
“Pint?”
I’m lost for a moment, not really sure what word from the English language he’s just jabbed at me. He raises his hand to his mouth in a motion imitating someone downing a beer and repeats the question.
“Pint, do you want a pint?”
Suddenly I get what he’s saying and with a start, shake my head.
“No no no, I’m great thanks, I’m not drinking.”
He smiles as he walks away, then spins around to face me, points at me whilst looking in my eyes and declares across the crowded bar,
“Poofter.”

My friends, momentarily stunned, gasp and then giggle.
I’m still stunned. I felt like calmly walking over to the bar and smashing a bottle over his head. This, this kind of thing, is why I hate straight men and straight bars. I still don’t know whether he was joking, or if he simply thought that declaring it was a hilarious truth. Either way, I won’t be buying anything from him again.

At the same time, with my unchanging expression and yet obvious shock, I felt like I was falling into the all too common faggot trap. I didn’t become aggressive and demand an apology, did not cause a scene in which he would be ashamed into an act of contrition. I felt like a failure in not standing up for myself, but ashamed, for some reason, that he was right.

I felt ashamed, for some reason, for some inexplicable reason, for being gay.

I hate this guy.

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